


Thoughts of Fear and Death

by Chaotic_Rogue



Series: TommyInnit Angst Files [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mental Abuse, Mentions of Death, Panic Attacks, Scared TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Tommy really isn't having a time, TommyInnit-centric, TommyInnt Needs A Hug, back at it again with the angst, someone give Tommy a break, tommyinnit angst, very brief mentions of JSchlatt and Mexican Dream, ya get the point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29851548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaotic_Rogue/pseuds/Chaotic_Rogue
Summary: Tommy had thought he knew what true fear was...oh how wrong he was.
Relationships: None
Series: TommyInnit Angst Files [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2194593
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	Thoughts of Fear and Death

**Author's Note:**

> TW - This has mentions of Tommy's recent death and resurrection, implied mental and physical abuse, and a depiction of a panic attack. Though I realize that this may make it seem more serious than it is in the end, I just don't want people to be upset about the topics written about.
> 
> Also, if any of the creators themselves express that they are uncomfortable with writings, I will not hesitate to take it down. Just remember, this is based of the characters they play, not the people themselves.

Tommy had thought he had known what true fear was. He had thought he had experienced it at the moment of his death. His last life. 

Fear was cold and relentless. A force that never let go unless you forced it to. At least, that’s what Tommy had thought, had known. 

He felt that fear when he died. When the last thing he saw was the lifeless eyes of that damned mask leering down at him. When the last thing he felt was pain radiating from every joint and muscle as he was beaten senseless. When everything was  _ ripped _ from him mercilessly. 

Fear was the blackness that he had woken(?) to in the afterlife. Death wasn’t as calming as everything made it out to be. It wasn’t peaceful. But Tommy could only suppose that was because he died violently. Much more violently than the three before him. 

Death was..lonely. It was suffocatingly lonely and painful. Though he had no physical body, not anymore at least, Tommy had felt like he was being torn apart. Shredded and put back together over, and over, and over again. It never stopped, it burned but it was a cold feeling all the same. 

The pain made it hard to remember his last moments. He  _ couldn’t _ remember them, but at the same, could remember every goddamned detail in the same breath. There was a certain detachment about it, he supposed. Like it hadn’t happened to him, but to someone else. It was near impossible to forget, but even more so to remember. 

Of course, Wilbur had been there to remind him. As had Schlatt and Mexican Dream. Despite how  _ alone _ he felt, Tommy was never truly alone. Even if Schlatt slept most of the time, too dead and drunk to care about inserting himself into conversations. Mexican Dream was himself, always fucking around someplace else doing one thing or another, just as annoying in death as he had been in life. 

Then there was Wilbur. 

His older brother, once his best friend. 

One of his worst nightmares. 

Wilbur never shut up. He was always going on about one thing or another, always talking. Tommy responded of course, he wasn’t a quiet person. These conversations, Tommy couldn’t remember for the life of him, but he always knew something was off. Wilbur was..he was evil. Nothing like his Ghostbur self. He was a menace who only wanted destruction. Any ounce of good that had been left was gone. It added to Tommy’s fear. 

But he had  _ accepted _ it. 

Tommy knew that he was dead. He had no lives left, no chances. He was dead, for good. 

At least, he should have been.

He would’ve preferred it that way. 

Tommy would have been more accepting of the painful black colorlessness of death than  _ this. _

It was  _ excruciating. _

Almost like being ripped away from life, but worse. 

Way fucking  _ worse. _

Dream had brought him back, and Tommy had wished to any deity that existed that he’d stayed dead. 

At first, it felt as if he was just waking up. Like he’d been asleep for a long time. But that only lasted for a moment. A single moment that Tommy had tried to hold onto, because what hit next was worse than the furthest depths of hell. 

It was like being shattered. Like he was a delicate china plate that had fallen off the highest shelf of a cupboard. Like he’d been the glass of a mirror that had been punched to shards. Then, in the same instant, he was put back together. He was whole again, but jagged and wrong. 

The phantom pains were the worst. He could still feel  _ everything. _ Every bruise, cut, scratch, and bump. But there was nothing there.  _ Nothing. _

It took every fiber of his being to even open his eyes, and when he had, Tommy could have sworn his heart stopped again. 

It was  _ Dream. _ It was  _ always _ Dream. 

That stupidly terrifying smiling mask leering down at him, hiding the face of the green clad monster behind it. The mask of his very waking nightmare. 

What happened after that was a blur. 

Tommy knew the conversation he’d had with Dream. Of course he had, but all the same, he could not utter a single line from it by memory. 

The most clear memory he had about it was the utterly pure  _ fear _ that gripped at his heart. 

It wasn’t cold like it had been when he died. It was pulling like it had been in death. It was  _ white hot. _ It pierced through his heart and controlled his senses all the same. Tommy was on autopilot throughout the interaction, the fear made it hard to believe anything. 

It had felt like  _ months. _ Two  _ fucking _ months since he’d faced this man. 

But no. 

No, not even close. 

It had been all of two  _ days. _

Tommy couldn’t decide what had been worse; only losing two days or waking up to Dream. 

Furthermore, the fear of knowing that Dream now held  _ too much _ power. The journal of resurrection had been  _ real, _ so painfully real! And Dream had killed him to prove it. 

_ Dream had killed him to prove a point. _

After the fear, Tommy could remember the anger. Not like any anger he had felt before. Not even close. Usually his anger was hot, his thoughts clear as he got the point of his anger across. Not this time. This time it was cold, bitter, and  _ drowning. _

Dream had  _ tortured _ him to prove a point. Had tortured a  _ child _ because he was being called a liar. 

Tommy wanted to kill Dream then and there. And Dream had mockingly given him every chance to do so. 

But he hesitated. 

Tommy hesitated because he knew he  _ couldn’t. _

Everyone thought he was dead. No one knew that Dream had brought him back, not even Sam. When that sank it, the fear sank in and settled in the pit of his stomach. It made him feel sick, he could feel his stomach churn, but he didn’t dare let Dream see it. At least, tried not to let him see it, even after their conversation had ended. 

Now all Tommy could do was think. He was trapped in his own head, thoughts racing but painfully slow at the same time. There was so much, but so empty. 

He was trapped in his head. 

No. 

No, no,  _ NO! _

He was trapped in an obsidian box, trapped by lava. 

Everything was too much now. Too much, too close, to entrapping. 

Tommy had huddled himself in the corner after that conversation, but that only made it all worse. 

He was a cornered animal. Cornered and trapped with no place to go. 

Tommy was just as much a prisoner as Dream was. Even more so, even. 

Trapped with a man with no sympathy. Trapped with a man who wanted to bring back the one other person that scared him the most. Trapped with a man who could, no,  _ would _ kill him again. Wanted to kill him again. 

It was a sick game. 

Just a sicking fucking game. 

Cat and mouse. 

Tommy was the mouse and Dream was the cat. 

He was trapped. 

Trapped. 

So fucking trapped, so fucking  _ weak. _

As it sank in, he could hardly breathe. No. He couldn’t breathe at all. 

The walls closed in on Tommy the longer he thought. 

_ Just stop thinking! _

_ No.  _

_ Nonononono!  _

He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs to breathe, his vision blurred. Wait, his eyes were opened? When had that happened? That’s right, he was staring at the obsidian at his feet, knees hugged to his chest as he struggled to breathe, to focus. 

It had only been a few hours since he had been brought back, and now everything was sinking in. 

Tommy was trapped in this cell, in his head, in his body. 

His hands found their way into his hair, that cold and ruthless fear gripping his heart and squeezing, making it that much harder to breathe. Shaking hands tugged at messy blonde locks of hair. 

_ Just breathe damn it! _

Tommy couldn’t breathe, though every fiber of his breathing screamed at him to do so. He barely registered the fact that he was breathing, or rather, hyperventilating. 

All he knew was that he was trapped with no way out. Not even death could free him from fear’s grasp. From  _ Dream’s _ grasp. 

Even with the other man in the room, Tommy was utterly alone and he couldn’t just fucking breathe. 

The eyes on him made it worse. He just  _ knew _ Dream was watching with some sort of sick satisfaction, and not even spite could make him pull it together. 

Where was Sam? Where was Tubbo? Where was Philza?! WHERE WAS EVERYBODY?! 

Tommy just wanted out. He wanted to be home. To be working on the hotel with Quackity and Jack bothering him for one thing or another. He wanted to be running around L’manburg and causing trouble. He just wanted to  _ breathe. _

There was no comfort here though. None.

Just cruel, heartless eyes watching him as he struggled to breath. 

It was too much. Too much all at once. 

He would give  _ anything _ to have his dad, Philza, kneeling by his side and grounding him, whispering gentle nothings to keep his attention. To have his brother, the  _ old _ Wilbur holding his shoulder as Philza calmed him, there for support, to wrap him in a hug when he could finally breathe again. To be back at Techno’s, bantering with the piglin hybrid about one thing or another as Philza laughed at them in the background. To be back at his bench with his discs and Tubbo just talking as they watched the sunset. 

But no. 

No, Tommy was here. He was with the monster that had caused him the most pain. The most  _ suffering. _

And for what? A fucking game?! Power?! 

Nothing! That’s what. 

Absolutely  _ nothing. _

Nothing other than Dream’s sick amusement. 

That thought hit him the hardest, even as his body shut down on him again. Even as he heard the  _ chuckle _ from the other as he slumped against the wall and fell unconscious again. 

Maybe this time he would stay asleep, Tommy hoped. Because anything was better than being here with Dream with no way out. 

Even the thoughts of fears and death.


End file.
